


Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

by withlightning



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withlightning/pseuds/withlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porn. House makes his daily phone call to Wilson and there is lots of talking. Also fingers and dirty images are involved -- as well as coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

**Author's Note:**

> So, yes. This was supposed to be pure phone sex. Somehow that turned out to be a pornless snarky porn fic. And in the end, well, there's some porn and lots of talking. I'm not going to apologize. Also, this idea came to me as I watched 6.09 - "Wilson", and then thought about all the promo pictures of season 8 (prison prison prison) and I just had to write this. I haven't seen anything after 6.09, so this is kind of canon AU, I suppose.

Coming home after a long day isn’t what it used to be, Wilson thinks. He drops off his keys to the side table near the door and takes off his coat, not bothering to straighten the sleeves or lapels, and throws it on the couch. He surveys the spacious room he’s in and takes notice of all the things that are there (House’s books piled on the coffee table, House’s shirt rumpled on the corner of the couch, still untouched; the coffee mug House used weeks ago, sitting unwashed on the counter, right where House left it) and things that aren’t (House’s cane; _House_ ) and he sighs. It’s been closer to month, now, and Wilson just can’t seem to get used to the fact that House isn’t here with him, that he’s alone again, after everything. (House would say, “You can’t win, _Jimmy_ ,” and smirk infuriatingly and Wilson would roll his eyes in exasperation.) Not bothering with the lights he walks straight into the bedroom, loosening his tie as he tries not to trip over various items (all of them _theirs_ : a sock, a crumpled magazine of medicine, one of Wilson’s ties, the red one he really likes, the red one that House really likes but had no qualms about getting Wilson rid of one night, and there might be a button from Wilson’s dress shirt somewhere from that same incident that still makes Wilson weak in the knees when he thinks about it, so he tries not to – items that Wilson hasn’t cleaned up, items that he’d tell House to pick up, time after time and House never would; never _did_ and now they just _are_ and Wilson’s fine with that, he really is) that Wilson suspects all have House’s personality and the need to make Wilson’s life as hard as it can be, every day – not unlike House himself.

His phone rings just as he has sat down and is taking off his shoes, fatigue hitting him with vigour and he yawns jaw-crackingly while fumbling with his cell phone. The slippery thing is hard to get out of his pocket and the ring tone is something horrible, something that House installed behind his back (or in front of him, Wilson isn’t sure), but he hasn’t changed it back, either, because it’s true, House _is_ bringing the sexy back – when he isn’t serving time -- and he’s bringing it back _good_. Wilson answers the call with, “You’re twenty minutes early tonight, they threatening you with solitary again?”

“Why do you always suspect the worst with everything? Oh right, oncology – it’s your choice of life to be depressed and pathetic, how could I have forgotten,” House says good-naturedly and Wilson smiles despite himself.

“You sound cheerful today. Did someone slip you some ketamine for a change?”

“Yes, we had a wild party with horses and hookers and—“ Wilson lies down on the bed comfortably.

After few minutes of very House-like chitchat there’s obscene amount of minutes used for something Wilson begins to suspect is an actual foreplay for House. In his usual manner, of course, “—and if you’re wearing your I’m-sorry-you’re-dying-but-look-at-this-green-tie-isn’t-it-hideous mishmash of stripes and dots and whatnots, please remove it because it’s really something to die for, if you catch my—“

Wilson blinks. “House? Is this your way of telling me to get naked while you’re helpfully mocking my choice of clothing?”

“What do you think?”

Wilson exhales. “What I think is that you’re insane—what does it have to do with—what are you even doing?”

“My original plan was to get you on with the program, but we can discuss the merits of mocking your sense of style versus having sex – except, oh yes, let’s not!”

Wilson sighs. “House. We’re not having phone sex.”

“I beg to differ,” House sing-songs.

“Begging; _you_? As if.”

“I’ve begged plenty.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“You’re right. I haven’t. Off with the clothes.”

“And now you’re commanding me to submit. And they say romance is dead.”

“I’ll let you know; were I there, I would have _beaten_ you into submission already.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

“Come on,” House coaxes. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?”

House grumbles. “You manipulative bastard.”

“I— have no idea what you’re talking about.” Wilson says in a perfectly innocent voice as he bites down a smile.

“And _you_ have learned from the best,” House says and Wilson detects a hint of pride in House’s voice.

“You know what they say about a man and the company he keeps.”

“And absence makes the heart grow fonder – what is this, national proverb day? Just— lose the clothes already.”

“Aren’t you eager,” Wilson says and untucks his shirt with one hand. “Wait.” He stops, fingers frozen on top of his belt. “What’s in this for you?”

“Other than giving you a mind-blowing orgasm?” House sounds incredulous. Wilson knows he’s evading like an evading thing.

“This is a _dare_ , isn’t it?” Wilson gasps theatrically. It’s a dare, he knows it like he knows bone cancer – or any other cancer, come to think of it – just, he knows House even better than cancer, since House is, well, _House_. “Are you gambling on sex now?”

“Has my absence made you dumber than usual?” Wilson hears House making a face, and continues opening his belt. If he’d close his eyes, he could almost feel House’s hands fighting with the buckle, strong and decisive, like so many times before. Wilson keeps his gaze locked onto the ceiling.

“You’re making a face, aren’t you?”

“Nope,” House answers quickly. Too quickly.

Right, Wilson thinks, of course he isn’t. His face just twists into something funny. “Right, of course. You just—”

“So, about those clothes. Get them off. _Now_.”

“Or what, you _hang up_ on me?” There's only silence. (It's not the _I'm-sorry-you're-dying-but-look-at-this-ugly-tie_ kind of pressing silence, or House's _well-figure-it-out-idiots_ silence before all the minions scramble away trying to make House proud. It's the kind of silence where House would stare down at Wilson and expect Wilson to either crumble, walk away or kiss House senseless – because confusing your opponent is a neat strategy – but none of those is going to happen this time.) "That's what I thought."

“How about: I want to fuck you?” House asks slowly, as if talking to someone with lower level of intelligence.

Wilson frowns. “But you can’t.”

“Of course I can’t, that’s not the point!”

“And the point _is_ that you got yourself in jail and I’m here, in this apartment and in the hospital, all days long – did you know it’s rather quiet at work? That I actually get work done? And at home, at home there’s no one to leave their things around or play the guitar in the middle of the night and even your piano is gathering dust, and the bed is—”

“Are you knocking down some books again?”House interrupts him.

Wilson bites his lip. “No; I feel like punching my fist through the wall. And you know how much I dislike violence – see, you’ve reduced me into this violence-loving monster who wants to—”

“I miss you too,” House says, voice warm and low and Wilson wants to sob. He swallows against the lump in his throat and stares at the ceiling harder, fighting the burn in his eyes. Wilson feels resigned.

“Can’t you just—”

“You know I can’t.” Wilson knows House can’t. “There’s no point doing the whole should, would, could thing,” House says quietly. “But if it’s any consolation, know that if I could, I would.”

“Yeah, okay,” Wilson says. (Because even if House knows Wilson doesn’t need empty platitudes, he kind of _does_ need them – just like he _kind_ of needed all his wives and empty marriages – which in actuality means he doesn’t. But it’s sweet of House to meet him half way. Kind of. In his own way.)

“Okay,” House says, and Wilson wants so badly for House to be home with him. He wants to wake up to the smell of burnt coffee or to the sound of House playing some stupid country song with his guitar and he wants House to wake him up with the most creative ways involving nimble fingers and a greedy mouth. (Those are the best mornings.) Wilson wants House to lie in the bed with him just now, to mock him and challenge him and to not-snuggle with him; wants House to tie his hands above his head and proceed to fuck Wilson with abandon; wants House to shake and moan and shatter under his hands, to let Wilson do _anything_. He trails his hand over the cool cover on the other side of the bed. House stays silent.

Wilson takes a deep breath. “So, about that tie. I’m not wearing it anymore,” he says.

House exhales. It’s a sound of relief.

Few minutes later Wilson finds himself almost naked; he’s only wearing his shirt, half unbuttoned. House has been giving him orders (“I’m _guiding_ you, not ordering,”) and Wilson’s been following. He tries not to think about the background noise he’s able to detect – faintly, but there; female voice asking for a smoke and House replying to her, “Beat it,” and Wilson replying to House, “Soon, I just got to get these pants off,” and House replying to him with a long, low groan; male voice shouting something aggressive and there’s the sounds of a fight, fists hitting faces and lot of profanities before there’s sudden silence and Wilson freezes, says, “House?” and House says, “I’m here,” and Wilson lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding – and he pushes down the images of House being excluded from everything else except the damn prison, the only place Wilson can’t go. Before he knows it, he’s spread eagle and jacking off on the steady breathing of House, his hand gliding on his cock, glistening with lube.

“Right,” Wilson says. “I think I’m finally getting on with the program.”

“Really?” House sounds interested. “I thought you said there would be no phone sex involved?”

“I—“ Wilson gasps. “I can stop if that’s better. Unless you—“

“Don’t,” House says, voice low and it Wilson shudders. (In that one word there are so many unnamed emotions Wilson’s lust-riddled brain can’t process – all he knows is that he couldn’t stop even if his life would depend on it, now. ) “What are you doing?”

Wilson slides his hand steadily up and down, stopping to circle the head of his cock once in a while. “What do you think I’m doing?”

House groans. “Tell me.”

Wilson bites down a moan, and he tells House. He tells House he feels so fucking good, that all he has is his hand, sliding on his cock – upward stroke, down, upwards, back down again – and dipping lower to fondle his balls; he tells House he misses House’s hands, misses House’s mouth and touch, and that when he closes his eyes he imagines House is there with him, that it’s House who’s touching him, _fucking_ him, making him tremble. He tells House he imagines it’s House’s mouth on him, sucking him, opening him; tells House it’s House’s fingers, then his cock filling him instead of his own fingers, burning, stretching, _filling_.

“Christ,” House croaks. Wilson can barely hear House’s labored breathing under his own and he has to focus to stay in the moment.

Wilson licks his lips, tastes salt and he swallows hard. “House—“

“I know,” House manages and his voice is _wrecked_. Wilson makes a sound that comes out as painful, except it’s not; it’s so good it comes out the other way, and House repeats the same noise. Wilson needs to slow down; he needs to slow down hand – Jesus – he needs to—

“I—“ he moans out, heart hammering in his chest and blood roaring in his ears. There are sparkles running in his veins and he feels electrified, feels like he’s losing his sanity, losing _himself_. “I can’t, I just can’t—“

“Yeah, you can,” House says thickly. “Just not yet.”

Wilson wants to scream but makes a keening sound instead and he has to force himself to stop moving altogether – to stop both his hand and his hips. “ _Please,_ ” he rasps out. ( _Please_ let him come, _please_ be here, _please_ never leave him again.) House says nothing, but Wilson hears a distinctive _thump_ and imagines House’s head hitting the wall, eyes shut and face turned up. Wilson closes his eyes and sees House’s long, exposed throat in front of him, the delicate skin speckled with stubble and he can imagine the scratchiness of it against his cheek, against his lips, and for a moment he’s sure he can taste House’s skin on his tongue, can smell the scent of him and Wilson’s eyes are burning again. He stifles a sob, a desperate whimper and House swallows audibly on the other end of the line. “Oh God, I want you to be here, I want you to—”

“Me too,” House whispers. Wilson tries to breathe, tries to suck in air to fill his lungs, gasping. “Breathe, Wilson,” House continues, and Wilson clutches his thigh, his short-cut nails digging into the muscle. The pain flares up, bursting through the want, through the _need_ and he takes a shuddering breath, whole body ready to give in.

Wilson’s hair is matted on his forehead and his skin is burning up, tingling all over. His hips start moving again on their own volition and his hand tightens on his slippery cock. “Hnng,” he groans and holy fuck it feels good – his stomach tightens again, twisting and sending sparks everywhere.

“If I was there,” House says, voice husky, “I’d fuck you so hard you’d feel it for days.” Wilson’s eyes fly open but he can’t see anything besides the image. “I’d bend you over, grip you hard and would fuck you until you’d beg. I’d let you beg until you couldn’t _talk_ ,” Wilson moans loudly, pushing three fingers inside himself and pumping them rapidly, “until you couldn’t remember words at all. Then I’d flip you over and make you fuck yourself on my cock – because we both know how much you _love_ that.”

Wilson cries out, moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes and his thighs are shaking and he’s about to _die_ , the world is spinning around him, narrowed only to Houses words and his fingers inside him and he feels so full, feels so empty, so _lost_ and he can’t take it, can’t take this anymore, he can’t—

“Come,” House says.

Keening, Wilson pumps his fingers in and out harder, the burn spreading from his stomach to his back, to his legs, his chest and his shoulders leave the bed when he curls on himself. He grips the phone hard enough to make his hand ache, but he has to hear House, he has to hear House’s expectant breathing and when he hears House’s breath hitching it’s enough to push Wilson over. He makes an indelible sound; half shout, half sob, and feels his fingers being crushed rhythmically as he comes, cock spurting on his shirt, on his already sticky skin and the world is a brightbright place, it’s a hot and nearly painfully good place – it’s House being completely silent on the phone and then saying, “ _Fuck_ ,” in a ruined, amazed way and Wilson screws his eyes shut, pushes his digits roughly higher, fluttering them inside and _God_ , he’s about to pass out with the pleasure bordering on pain and he keeps going until he has to stop, until he’s too sore to go on any more.

“Oh,” Wilson gasps out little stupidly. The world is still spinning around him, slowing gradually. He’s sticky all over and his heart is trying to beat its way through his chest.

House takes a deep breath. “Yeah; _oh_ ,” he says. “I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.”

Wilson brain is sluggish and it takes him a while to realize there's still background noise, still people talking around House, still people to _hear_ — “Oh God, you didn’t,” he croaks in horror.

“You bet your adorable keening noise of coming that I did.” Wilson can hear House smiling smugly. “Sharing is caring, right?”

Wilson is speechless. Because. Well. _House_. (He’s kind of used to House rendering him speechless – yet he’s taken by a surprise every time it happens. It’s ridiculous, he knows.)

“Besides, it was bedtime story time for the kiddies,” House says. The idea of House calling other inmates _kiddies_ makes Wilson shudder. Feeling ashamed (because he’s planning to visit House in the near future and actually face his new “friends” – and since when does he care what _convicts_ think of him?), he lifts his hand to cover his face and on the last second remembers it’s not such a good idea with the amount of lube and spunk other substances covering whole of the limb.

“You know that not everyone is an exhibitionist such as yourself, don’t you?”

House snorts. “And you know that lying doesn’t make you any less attractive. Have you really forgotten that Italian place down the street – decent garlic bread, good wine, even better hand jobs under the table with excellent supply of napkins?”

“You _do_ belong in prison,” Wilson says smiling, not unkind. There’s another long-stretched silence and Wilson tries not to contemplate the drying come making his skin itch. He fails.

“Good night, Wilson.” House’s voice is oddly gentle, quiet.

Wilson’s chest aches. “Good night, House.”

He presses the phone harder against his ear, hears House’s distant (and smug), “Pay up, bitches,” and then there’s only the urgent beeping of a disconnected call. Wilson barks out a laugh and the pain under his ribs lessens into a steady throb.

Gathering all his strength, Wilson gets up from the bed and pads to the bathroom. He’s shaking a little and the cool floor is blissful under his still-feverish feet. His legs wobble as he walks carefully and he’s unable to help the small smile rising on his lips. Only House, he thinks as he wipes his stomach and thighs clean. The stained shirt gets thrown into the laundry basket.

After he’s all washed up, he makes his steadier-by-the-step way to the wardrobe. The pile of House’s t-shirts is running low and in sighing, Wilson grabs one that has some ridiculous skulls and inane words printed on it. It’s a tight fit on his shoulders, but so worth it; there’s a whiff of House’s after shave absorbed on the collar and Wilson takes a deep, deep breath, savouring the smell.

The pair of House’s socks in front of the wardrobe and the small basketball near the bedside table are left untouched as Wilson crawls under the blanket. He checks the alarm has been set – it is. (House always mocks him about setting the alarm; snorting next to him, never missing an opportunity to tease him; to _mock_ -mock him with a silver sparkle in his blue eyes before leaning down to kiss Wilson, a little more fondly than he means to, as if to assure Wilson that he doesn’t mean it, doesn’t mean any of it, as if to assure that Wilson means something – perhaps a lot – to him. Wilson always kisses him back, curls an arm around House’s neck and holds on tightly. And in the mornings House groans and grumbles and tries to disarm the irritating, relentless beeping by hitting the clock – and sometimes he even succeeds – before Wilson curls against him and kisses him good morning on his stubbly throat, feeling the scratch of it under his lips in a familiar burn and tingle. The next night Wilson needs to check if the clock still works and it hasn’t lost its settings -- it never does, but Wilson can’t be sure unless he checks. And House mocks him as usual.) Wilson closes his eyes, lids drooping down tiredly and he feels comfortably weightless.

Right before he knows the haze will pull him under, his hand searches the space next to him. Finding his phone he puts it down on the bedside table, securely.

There’ll be another phone call tomorrow night.

He can hardly wait.

 

\- Fin


End file.
